


Things Owed - Message in a Bottle

by Akamaimom



Series: Things Owed [10]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 18:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8456962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akamaimom/pseuds/Akamaimom





	

**Things Owed**

**Message in a Bottle**

 

 

 

"Not quite the gear we're used to. Right, Sam?" 

Startled, she looked up and peered over her shoulder to watch as Daniel made his way towards her. He was carrying his helmet in the crook of one arm, a canvas gear bag in the other hand. 

They'd set up one of the larger multipurpose rooms as a clean room of sorts, flying in a few experts from Groom Lake to help with the outfitting for this particular mission. SG-1 had been given special clothing to wear underneath the pressurized gear, and they'd taken turns getting outfitted by the team before meeting in the briefing room in preparation for that morning's mission. 

"When I was a kid, wearing stuff like this was my dream." Carter gestured downward towards the bulky gear she wore. "I wanted to be in NASA like you wouldn't believe." 

"So I understand." Daniel smiled, placing his gear pack down next to the helmet. "Although I can't imagine you actually being happy stuck on the Space Station for a year at a time." 

"Same people. Same food. Same space for months at a time?" She patted the helmet she'd placed next to her on the table, returning his smile. "You're right. I'm not sure I would enjoy that." 

"Surely the astronauts have some choice as to who they serve with?" Daniel backed up towards the briefing room table, perching as best he could on its edge. 

"Some, I'm sure. Maybe." Sam scrunched up her nose. "To be honest, I'm not sure." 

"Because can you imagine being up there with a really horrible person who told bad jokes or sang all the time?" 

"Or someone who just irked you." 

"Or who had really raunchy B.O.?" 

She considered that as she watched the final preparations going on below them in the 'Gateroom. "Still- you'd be in space. That's something that not a lot of people can brag about." 

Daniel tried, and failed to shrug. The heavy suits precluded much non-essential motion. "But if you were up there with really ridiculous people, you might end up on the news for something other than your work in space." 

"Like killing my fellow station-dwellers?" 

"Hey." Daniel gestured towards her with a gigantic hand. "I've seen you get annoyed with people. I'd feel sorry for obnoxious people stuck up there with you." 

"If I didn't know about the 'Gate, and if the Space Station were my only option for extra-terrestrial experience, then I bet that I'd be able to control myself." 

Nodding, Daniel pressed his lips together before responding. "So, you'd be okay with it." 

Sam glanced up toward the ceiling. "If that's all I knew was available, it wouldn't be bad." 

"But now that you're aware of the 'Gate - " 

"Yeah." She smiled. "The Space Station would pretty much suck." 

"What sucks?" The Colonel had arrived. Striding across the floor, he plunked his helmet down on the table next to Carter's, then turned to face his teammates. "Because I'm thinking that's an appropriate thing to say about the Spandex Underoos they gave us." 

"The suits will protect us from the harsh environment of P4G-881." Sam always seemed to default to technical description whenever O'Neill was around - it was the only thing that helped her keep her sanity around the man. "They're not built for comfort, but for durability and to guard against any eventuality." 

"I'm aware of that, Captain."

His tone was different than it had been lately. Colder, somehow. Jarring, really, when she'd gotten used to him treating her scientific ramblings with a sense of amused tolerance. Glancing over at him, she studied him surreptitiously before responding. "Anyway, Daniel and I were talking about being stuck on the Space Station for long periods of time." 

Daniel looked up and grinned. "We've decided it would suck." 

"Maybe." O'Neill tried to scratch his ear, but gave up and ended up just glaring at his glove. "But then, maybe the Space Station could be a whole lot of fun. At the very least, it'd be quiet. Quality alone time. I'll bet that a guy could really relax up there without people interrupting him every three minutes." 

Jackson passed a quizzical look at Sam before turning back to O'Neill. "You live alone, Jack." 

"I do." The Colonel leaned back against the table's edge. "And how many evenings per week, on average, do you just happen to end up there?" 

"A few." Daniel straightened, walking over towards the observation window. "Although, to be fair, you invite us over a lot." 

"You, Daniel. Not us.'" Jack growled. "I wasn't talking about the whole team. You, singular, tend to end up making dents in my couch way more than anyone else." 

"So, I'm not welcome at your house?" Turning, Daniel passed a quizzical look at O'Neill. 

"I didn't say that." 

Sam dropped her gaze towards her boots. As accustomed as she was to their bickering, there were times when it really grated on her nerves. An image of SG-1 on the Space Station beating the crap of each other had her biting back a smile. She'd totally kick butt - especially since she was fairly certain that Teal'c would be on her side. 

"So, what _did_ you say?" 

"Just that you pop over frequently. You're a popper." 

"And you think that means what, exactly?" 

O'Neill narrowed his eyes, tilted his head downwards with a sigh. "Nothing. It doesn't mean anything." 

"Then why does it bother you?" 

Pushing away from the table, O'Neill paced past Carter and towards the opposite end of the room towards the door. "It just bothers me." 

Slowly, Daniel took a few steps towards Sam. "Why?" 

"Why?" O'Neill's brows rose as he looked back over his shoulder. "Well, Daniel. Have you ever thought that sometimes - _just sometimes_ \- I might have plans?" 

The younger man's face was a perfect mixture of amusement and disbelief. "What, like a book club?" 

"Maybe." 

"No - you've got a secret quilting bee that you're part of." 

"Also possible." 

"You're a wicked fourth in a neighborhood bridge game." 

O'Neill glowered at the younger man. "And what about it?" 

Daniel paused, his hands drifting up to rest at what approximated his waist. "Because surely you're not implying that you're - like - _dating_ or something." 

"And what if I was?" 

Sam froze, her entire being stilled. Slowly, she screwed a benign expression onto her face and forced herself to walk casually towards the window. Pressing her lips tightly together, she tried to remember that there was nothing but friendship and camaraderie between herself and her CO. There _could_ be nothing else. She had no hold on him, no reason to feel betrayed. Nothing to resent. She should be happy for him, right? He'd been alone for a long, long time. It was a good thing. 

Behind her, Daniel's voice changed from confrontational to congratulatory. "Wow. I hadn't realized that you were back in the saddle, so to speak. Good on you." 

She sensed O'Neill's eyes on her, and hazarded a glance up at the observation window. He was looking at her, his expression completely blank. Sam felt herself blush, heated color spreading from her throat up her cheeks. For a brief moment, their eyes held in the hazy mirror of the observation window, and then O'Neill turned away, his face hard, inscrutable. 

"Seriously though." Daniel continued. "I had no idea." 

"Yes, well." O'Neill leaned a shoulder against the door jamb, his body turned away from the window. "Let's just say that you don't know everything, Daniel, and leave it at that." 

"Well, can I ask who the lucky lady is?" 

"No." And O'Neill's tone indicated that it was the end of the conversation. 

For several, long minutes, the room sat in silence, until heavy footsteps outside the door indicated that Teal'c was finally outfitted for the mission. Unlike the rest of them, he entered the briefing room with his helmet already clamped into place, its solar visor raised so that he could see. 

"Teal'c." The Colonel pushed away from the jamb. "What took so long?" 

"It appears that NASA does not expect for Jaffa to be wearing their space suits, Colonel O'Neill." Teal'c frowned through the shield of his helmet. "Additional time was required to make certain adjustments." 

"Okay then." O'Neill strode over to the table and retrieved his own gear from the table. "Let's get going, people. We've got a mission to accomplish."

 

\-------OOOOOOOO--------

 

He'd been released from the infirmary late on the third afternoon. Sam had visited once while he'd been laid up - tagging along with Daniel as he'd delivered some magazines and a Gameboy to the Colonel. O'Neill had barely acknowledged her, although he'd been quite genial to Daniel. Sam had tried not to wonder what that meant. Ultimately, Teal'c had stepped up to the plate and hung out at the Colonel's bedside throughout his hospitalization. It made sense, really, given that they'd spent the entire episode in the 'Gateroom together. Their already solid friendship had grown stronger. 

Which left Sam - where?

Feeling culpable, for one thing. Guilty, at fault, liable. During the crisis, she'd been able to concentrate on the situation, and she'd eventually figured it out. While the Colonel had been impaled by the orb, in pain, confused, and suffering, she'd had to turn off any and all emotions. His predicament and pain had to become a random puzzle to solve. Now that it was finished, however, no matter how much she'd tried to see the events from a purely scientific standpoint, all she could think about was that it had taken her too long to free him. 

Besides, it was her fault in the first place. All the 'ifs' constantly roiled around in her head and wouldn't let her be. If she'd only left the orb alone. If she'd left it on the planet rather than insist on bringing it through the 'Gate. If she'd left the SGC and gone to bed like a normal person rather than obsess over the thing. If she'd figured out the implications of the math on the exterior. If, if, if. . . 

If she hadn't been hurt at the thought of the Colonel seeing someone. . . 

If she hadn't have been stupid enough to interpret the moments they'd shared as more than they'd actually been. . . 

Not that her feelings had anything at all to do with Colonel O'Neill being impaled by an alien orb. It had just compounded her own frustration. 

Carter had gone home that night and closed the door behind her, traipsing through her darkened house only to drop down on her sofa. It had been quiet, silence broken only periodically by the mechanical whir of the fans of her computer towers. Nobody had called, nobody had dropped by - Sam Carter had been completely alone. She'd stared off into nothingness until the exhaustion she'd been fighting had claimed her. 

Hours and a stiff neck later, she'd woken up only long enough to change her clothes, use the bathroom, and tuck herself into her bed. 

They'd been put on leave until the Colonel was up and about again, and she'd slept through much of the first day. The second day, she'd suited up and gone into the SGC, only to sit in her lab staring at the walls until General Hammond found her and ordered her to go home. But home was quiet, and vacant, and she'd needed to escape from there nearly as soon as she'd closed the door behind her. Without even really thinking about it, Sam had changed from her BDUs into jeans and a sweater, and headed back out. 

She'd ended up at the mall. Again. Even as she'd stopped short, staring at the vapid chaos of the food court, she had to admit to herself that it was a ridiculous place. And belatedly, she remembered that it was a Sunday, and the place was crawling with couples. Young, old, high schoolers, middle-aged, college students, some military, most civilian, some an amalgam of the two. To be alone within the pairs made her feel even more solitary. As if she were back in elementary school being chosen last for Red Rover. Or standing in the briefing room in a space suit trying not to think about the Colonel dating. 

But to turn and leave would feel as if she were fleeing, and Sam Carter never surrendered if she could help it. Gritting her teeth, she headed toward a food kiosk and ordered without truly thinking about it. When the box was handed to her, she grabbed it without enthusiasm. She hadn't really been hungry, anyway. Making her way through the maze of tables and chairs, she realized a little hysterically that she'd rather be fighting her way through forests full of Jaffa than be at the Chapel Hills Mall at lunch time. Ironically, she'd have better luck finding a place to sit in the forest. Sitting on the floor was frowned upon in the Mall. 

Swearing silently under her breath, she stopped, making a long, slow sweep of the place. Nothing. Not a seat to be seen, and nary a boulder or log, either. 

"You're welcome to share my table with me, dear." 

Startled, Sam turned towards the voice. White hair, wide brown eyes, and a cheerful smile crinkling a softly wrinkled face. Thin, but not frail, the speaker had a half-eaten cheeseburger on the tray in front of her, and the largest order of French fries that Sam had ever seen. 

The woman gestured towards the seat opposite hers. "I promise I'll be nice. I haven't bitten anyone in years." 

"I'm sorry." Sam stammered. "I don't want to bother you." 

"I made the offer, young lady." Still smiling, she picked up a fry and jabbed it towards Sam. "If I'd thought you'd be annoying, I probably would have let you keep wandering in a circle holding that pathetic little salad." 

"It's not pathetic." Why Carter felt the need to defend her lunch, she had no idea. But she had to admit that the French fries looked far more appetizing. 

"It is pathetic." The woman dipped the fry in a small dish of ketchup. "Rabbit food. I'm 72 years old, and I should know." 

"You're 72?" 

"If you want the story, honey," Those brown eyes gleamed with a challenge. "You've gotta sit." 

Despite herself, Sam smiled. Setting the salad down, she pulled the chair out from the table and sank into it. "Thank you. It's been kind of an off day for me." 

Sam's savior took a moment for an assessing kind of look. "I've never seen anyone appear as lost in a mall as you have." 

"Like I said. It's been a rough day. Well, week really." 

"Would you like to talk about it?" 

Sam looked down at the box she'd opened, and its mix of greens. Belatedly, she realized that she'd forgotten to get utensils from the kiosk. With a little sigh, she closed the box. "Not really." 

"Is it man trouble?" 

"Excuse me?" 

"Man. Trouble. Are you having relationship issues?" 

"Um." Sam shook her head, then nodded, shrugging. "No. But kind of." 

"Is he married?" 

"No." Sam forced herself to focus. Taking a deep breath, she reached across the table. With a cleansing sort of exhale, she offered a hand. "I'm sorry. I haven't introduced myself. I'm Sam." 

Brushing salt off her hands, the woman thrust a hand across the table and captured Sam's in a firm shake. "Doris."

"Are you here with anyone else?" 

"My daughter dragged me here. She's looking for new shoes for some work party she's going to. Some fancy-schmancy deal at The Broadmoor." 

"The Broadmoor. I've never been there, but I hear it's beautiful." 

"I hear it's expensive." Doris's eyes grew wide before narrowing in thought. "But then, I've never understood spending hundreds of dollars to sleep in a bed that dozens of other people have slept in first. I'd rather just roll out my own bunk and sleep on the floor." 

Sam actually laughed at that. "I've slept on the ground a lot lately, and to be honest, a nice expensive bed sounds kind of wonderful to me." 

"Are you big into camping?" 

"Something like that." Sam rested an elbow on the table. "I'm in the military and we have to rough it during training exercises occasionally." 

Doris frowned. "Honey, you do not look military to me." 

"Air Force." Nodding, Sam glanced down at her boxed salad. "For most of my adult life." 

"My brother's son is in the Army." Reaching towards her fries, Doris screwed up her mouth in thought. "Just between you and me, he's my favorite relative. Maggie guilted him into escorting her to this shindig, but don't tell her I said that." 

"Surely if he hadn't wanted to go, he'd have said so, wouldn't he?" 

"Maggie's a convincing sort." Doris dunked a few fries into the ketchup. "Bless her heart, she's always been able to whine and wheedle until she gets her way. Max never stood a chance." 

"Max?" 

"The nephew." Frowning, Doris skewered her with a beady eye. "Keep up, dear." 

Sam bit back a smile, trying without success to look contrite. "Sorry." 

"Anyhoo, Max just caves every time she snaps her fingers at him. He's her escort for weddings, for office parties, for schmoozing business clients. They've always been close, but it's starting to get a little absurd." 

"Does she date other people?" 

"She's too picky. That's what her problem is. She's some high muckity-muck in her profession, and won't settle for anyone she doesn't consider to be at her level."

Sam considered. "To be honest, I'm not certain that I'd want to settle for someone who I didn't respect and hold in high esteem."

"Yes." Doris picked up the bun of her cheeseburger and futzed with the tomato, which had started to slide out. "But it's possible to respect someone who doesn't make as much money as you do. You fall in love with the person, and not the salary."

"That's true." 

"And Maggie makes a boat-load of salary." 

"Hmm." Sam traced the words on the top of her box with her finger. It had been a long, long time since she'd talked with anybody about this sort of thing. She measured her next words carefully. "So what happens if you fall for someone who's unavailable?" 

Doris replaced the bun, deliberately patting it down. "Is that what happened to you?" 

"Me?" Sam shook her head, but then stopped short. "Kind of. Not really. But kind of. And then I let him down recently and he was - hurt." 

"Physically or emotionally?" 

"Both." 

"One of those training things you were telling me about?" 

"More or less." 

"Does he care about you, too?" 

Sam captured her bottom lip between her teeth. She didn't know. Not for sure. And she shouldn't even want to know - not when it would be so horrifically inappropriate. What she felt for Colonel O'Neill couldn't be quantified or graphed. It just _was_. But it shouldn't be. And that was the real problem. What had been hero-worship had become her quest to prove herself, which had morphed to a mutual respect and understanding. From there it had become something - more. Something stupidly ill-advised, yet perfect, in a complicated, ridiculous way. 

Images hurled themselves through her mind. A gun in a pastry box, a frame with a hidden photo in the back, hockey lessons, planetariums, the projection clock that she'd tweaked. A foam-tipped baton. Talking. Lots of talking. Learning, knowing, understanding. Looks that lasted too long, smiles that were too intimate. Throw-away jokes that she knew he’d made just to make her laugh. His hair - messy from spending the night holding her while she'd slept. Whatever it all meant, though, she couldn't be certain, could she? 

"Sam?" 

"I don't know." Her voice came out weakly, as if she were whispering rather than speaking. "Not for sure. He's seeing someone, I think. I'm not certain. But I just don't know."

Doris reached across the table and laid her hand on Sam's. It was cool, and solid, with a surprising roughness that somehow seemed even more comforting. "Honey, what does your heart tell you?" 

Sam shook her head. "I don't put a lot of faith in my heart. It doesn't have a great track record."

Nodding, Doris patted Sam's hand before pulling it back across the table. "Well then, what does your gut tell you?" 

"My gut?" Sam sat up straight in her chair, leaning slightly back against the back. Frowning down at her box, she thought about it. Her gut told her that Jack O'Neill was a good man, an honorable man, a warrior. It told her that she was attracted to him on more than one level - that she had opened up more than she should have and allowed more than was wise. It also told her that the same attributes that made him such an effective leader for her were those that she lay awake thinking about for far too long at night. Her gut told her that she was foolish for falling for his roguish smile and gruff demeanor. That she spent far too long thinking about those agile hands of his, and his too-intelligent eyes. "My gut can't be trusted, either." 

Doris had taken a bite of her cheeseburger. Swallowing, she reached for her cup and took a long swig before responding. "Oh, I think that your gut is probably smarter than you think. Sometimes it's hard to accept what's placed before you, though." 

"And sometimes circumstances are such that accepting what you know isn't the best course of action." 

"So, we're going the denial route?" 

"In this case, it's probably best." 

Doris took the napkin from her lap and folded it meticulously before setting it next to her meal with a precision that seemed nearly military. "Then why are you asking the questions?" 

Sam stalled for a moment. Doris had a point - realistically, there was nothing to be done about it. They worked as a team. She, Daniel, Teal'c, and yes - Colonel O'Neill. Without any one of them, the team wouldn't function as well as it needed to. And, not to be overly dramatic, but the world was literally at stake. No matter what Sam - or O'Neill - wanted, they were both professional enough to recognize that the security of the planet had to come first. So, denial?

Sure. It was the best option they'd have. Even though it really wasn't what Sam wanted. 

"I don't know, honestly." 

"Maybe you just need to go talk to him." Doris leaned forward, resting her crossed forearms on the little table. "Tell him you're sorry and try to make it up to him." 

"Make it up to him." Sam frowned down at her box. "How?" 

"How would I know?" Doris's face relaxed into a wry smile. "I don't know the man. You do." 

Sam watched as the older woman took another large swig of her soda before choking out an epithet. With a speed that Sam wouldn't have expected, Doris put her drink down, scooting her entire meal across the table before grabbing her purse and settling it, grandma-style, on her lap. Hunching over a little, she schooled her face into what could only be referred to as a vague frown. 

All of a sudden, the spry, witty woman appeared ancient. 

"Mother!" 

Sam paused, then looked up and slightly behind her. Maggie was little - several inches shorter than Sam herself, and quite petite. She was carrying several bags on one arm and a garment bag draped over the other. Her clothing was exquisite - pencil skirt and a sweater set with perfectly elegant jewelry and heels that were the ideal height. Glancing down at her worn blue jeans and well-loved sweater, she realized that she was still wearing her boots. Only, not the posh riding boots that appeared to be currently on-trend. Sam’s were boots of the combat variety. 

"Mother." Maggie stopped at the edge of the table, her quick eyes making quick work of the evidence. "What's all this? I told you that we were going to go out to lunch after I found my shoes." 

Doris's eyebrows rose. "That was hours ago, Margaret." 

"It was not." Maggie glanced up at the decorative clock hanging between the McDonalds and the Dairy Queen. "It's been barely forty-five minutes." 

"It just felt like hours." Doris shook her head. "Maybe it's just the senility." 

"You really couldn't have been patient? Now our lunch will be ruined." 

"The food was mine." Sam grabbed the soda and took a swig, smiling innocently up at Maggie. "I was really, really hungry." 

Maggie turned slightly, acknowledging Sam's presence with a twitch of her perfectly rouged lips. "Yours." 

"Yep." Sam snagged a cold French fry and shoved it into her mouth. "Your mom was just kind enough to let me sit with her." 

Obviously, Margaret hadn't risen to whatever high-faluting position she held because she was gullible. The gleam in her dark eyes told Sam exactly what she thought, although the expression wasn’t unkind. Sighing a little, she softened into a smile. "Well, regardless. Max should be here any minute. We're going for his tuxedo fitting, and then we'll go to that sushi place." 

"Sushi." Doris was obviously ambivalent about that pronouncement. "How about a steak instead?"

"How about we don't further antagonize your arteries?" With a quick adjustment of her packages, Maggie stepped backwards in a not-so-subtle command for her mother to follow. 

"Sushi. Rabbit food." Grimacing, Doris looked down at the remnants of the feast sitting in front of Sam. "Why is it always rabbit food?" 

"Well, technically, rabbits probably don't eat raw fish." Sam's gaze bounced from mother to daughter and then back to Doris. "Perhaps you could imagine it as a shark food, instead." 

"We're back to denial, are we?"

"Maybe not denial as much as recognizing reality and accepting it." 

"That can be good, too." Doris leaned across the table, speaking in a stage whisper. "Sam, honey. Remember what we talked about. If you're worried, just make it up to him." 

Which Sam still had no clue how to do. Still, she smiled, nodding. "I will, Doris." 

"And give me a call sometime." She reached into a pocket on the front of her purse and withdrew a card. "Maggie had these made up just in case I ever forgot who I was and starting running naked through the Springs, but it hasn't happened yet, more's the pity. Regardless, you look like you could use an ear from time to time." 

"Thank you. I appreciate that." Accepting the card, Sam glanced down at it before tucking it into her jeans pocket. "I'd better get going." 

Rising, she grabbed the box which held her salad. With a quick smile at Maggie and Doris, she made her way through the jumbled mass of mall-going humanity and headed towards the doors.

 

\-------OOOOOOOO-------

 

 _"Make it up to him."_  

Doris' words were still echoing in Sam's ears as she climbed the steps to the Colonel's front porch and knocked on his door. When nobody answered, she adjusted the bag she held and knocked again. 

Still nothing. She'd raised her hand to knock a third time when the door swung silently open. 

He looked like hell. Pale, tired, and his hair hadn't been combed in what appeared to be days. But his eyes - glassy, and empty. As if his experience had dulled something inside. 

"I'm sorry if I'm bothering you." 

"What do you want, Carter?"

"Nothing." She faltered a bit, then held up the bag. "I brought you dinner." 

The Colonel grimaced, but stepped aside, swinging his door open wide enough for her to enter "Do you mind if we go in so I can sit?" 

"Of course not." Moving across the threshold, she sidestepped towards the stairs that led downward into the living room as O'Neill closed the door behind her. "I'm not going to stay. I just thought I'd bring something." 

The Colonel passed her in the entry hall, then slowly descended the stairs and walked towards the couch. Following him, Sam took inventory. 

The house wasn't as messy as she'd been expecting. It appeared as if the Colonel had made a nest of sorts on his couch, and the coffee table was littered with water bottles and pill containers, but otherwise, the place seemed to be in good condition. Watching as he lowered himself to the couch, she stopped a few feet away from the table. 

Beneath his t-shirt, the bandages on his left shoulder and chest created a decent-sized bulge. Nothing else had been wounded by the orb's spikes, so Sam assumed that the Colonel's slow movement and vagueness had to be attributed to the medications. "Are you feeling okay?" 

He ran a hand through the graying chaos that was his hair. "All things considered. I guess I can't complain."

"Because I could go run errands for you, or get you more medicine." Her eyes flickered back to the pile of pill bottles on the coffee table. "Or something." 

"Or something." O'Neill seemed to mull that over before raising his eyes to study her. "Why are you really here, Carter?" 

Sam took a step forward, lifting the bag a little. "I brought you food." 

"Food." 

"And a movie. And some gift certificates." 

"I have food. And plenty of movies - DVD and VHS." His scowl deepened. "And why the hell would I need gift certificates?"

"With your injury, I thought it might be better for you two to order in. You wouldn't have to drive, but you could still make good on it. You wouldn't miss it." 

"What, exactly, am I making good on?"

Sam stood, stymied, for just a moment, before answering. "Your date."

Her voice cracked. Damn it.

Silence. Awkward, horrific silence. The Colonel sat completely motionless, his face a baffled mask. Sam breathed shallowly, quickly, certain that her face was a brilliant scarlet. "I didn't want you to miss your date. And since it's my fault that you got injured, I felt kind of guilty that you're didn't get to see her. Or - whoever it was. Whatever. Anyhow, I brought dinner for you to eat tonight and a few movies I rented. Keep them as long as you want, I can take care of the fees, and there's a gift certificate in the bag for a restaurant. For a couple, actually, and I've already taken care of delivery. Chinese, Mexican, Italian, Burgers - I think that's it. That way you can order what you and she want and have some - " 

"Carter." 

She clamped her teeth together as soon as he spoke, her lips so tight that they hurt. 

"Carter." Softer now, he straightened in his spot on the sofa, shaking his head gently. "What in heaven's name are you babbling about?" 

"Your date." 

"We've established that part." 

"With the woman." She gestured lamely into thin air, some limp pointing over her shoulder. "Before the mission. You told Daniel that you were dating someone." 

"Dating someone." 

"Remember? You called him a 'popper' because he was always coming over. You told him he needed to give you space because you were dating someone." 

"I'm not sure - " 

"I'm pretty sure that's what I heard." Rolling her eyes towards the ceiling, she grappled with her memory until she'd recalled it exactly. "He asked you about bridge, and quilting, and a book club. That's when he guessed you were seeing somebody." 

"And this mystery woman is supposed to be joining me for movies and take out food from your bag there?" 

Sam lifted her hand a few inches, letting the large, paper sack dangle between them. "Yes, Sir."

And his face. Crap on a stick. His face said everything and nothing, dozens of responses warring on practically every square inch of it. 

What an unmitigated disaster. 'Make it right', Doris had said. It had sounded so simple - so easy to replace that which she'd inadvertently taken from the Colonel. Somehow to make it possible for him to fulfill this simple obligation. The bag hung from her fingers - a horrible, rancid, leaden weight. The proverbial albatross. The urge to toss it into the nearest fire, or wood chipper, or cement mixer was nearly uncontrollable. Desperately, Sam wanted to flee - she wanted to escape, wished to turn tail and haul herself out of this house, far from this place, away from this man. Off the planet. 

The Space Station was looking better and better. 

"I'm sorry, Sir." Sam's gaze dropped towards the floor. What a fool. What a complete idiot she'd made of herself. It served her right for taking advice from a seemingly nice little old lady who'd been deceiving her daughter in the Food Court. "This was - This was unbelievably stupid." 

"Carter." 

But she'd already started to turn. Flicking a look at her CO, she sighed. "I'll go."

"Carter." 

"Again - I'm sorry." 

She'd made it to the stairs leading up to the entryway before he spoke again. "Sam." 

Four steps and she'd be free. All she had to do was climb them. But there was something in his voice. Something more patient than she'd heard in a while. Amusement, perhaps. Kindness. Squeezing her eyes shut, she took a deep breath. The smart thing to do would be leave. The intelligent, logical thing, would be to leave. 

But she turned. Slowly pivoting until she was facing in his direction, she allowed her lids to rise. Allowed herself to look at this man for whom she felt - something. _Something_. 

"I canceled the date." He'd settled deeper into the sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. 

"Canceled?" 

"It wouldn't have been fair." 

"Fair?" Sam's brows lowered. "What do you mean?" 

"It just wouldn't have been." He shrugged his uninjured shoulder, his attention unwaveringly on her face. "My neighbor is a nice old guy, and he's been trying to set me up with his daughter for ages. She was in town for the week, and we'd arranged - something. She's great, I'm sure. But it's not - " he trailed off, looking away from Sam to study the melange of medications on his coffee table. 

"Fair." She'd said the word into the quiet. Still, what it meant, exactly, Sam could only guess. Shuffling towards the sofa, she stopped a few feet away. "I just felt kind of culpable for you getting hurt." 

"I got that." 

"And I'm sorry." 

"Stop apologizing, Carter." 

"I just - " 

"Stop." More forceful, now. He'd used his 'Colonel' voice. His dark eyes dropped towards the bag. "So, what's for dinner?" 

Sam looked downward. "Chinese. Li Li's Garden. Kung Pau Shrimp and Mushroom Chicken." 

"Egg rolls?" 

"Of course. And chow mein." 

"You said something about a movie?" 

"Um - yeah." She took another step forward. "Mission Impossible with Tom Cruise, and some chick flick that I figured your lady friend might like. Something about a patient. He's British or something. I didn't pay too much attention, to be honest. Janet suggested it." 

"I haven't seen either of those." 

"Me either, so don't blame me if they stink." Sam moved towards the sofa, stopping just shy of the coffee table. Reaching over the Colonel's legs, she rearranged the medicine containers and empty water bottles until there was space for the sack. Then, gathering up the trash, she made her way up to the kitchen, where she deposited it into the garbage can. "Do you want a plate?" 

"Just a soda, please." 

Peeking into the fridge, she found a dozen or so cans of diet cola and a smattering of condiments in and around various other take-out containers. Snagging a can, she returned to the living room. 

He'd dug into the bag and retrieved the carry-out containers, placing them on the nearly-tidy coffee table. He'd already pulled the chopsticks out of their paper wrappers. Looking at the soda in her hand, he frowned. "You didn't want one?" 

"Um - I wasn't - " She paused, gesturing a little with the can. "I brought this for you. I'm not going to stay. I figured you'd want some peace and quiet. Again - I'm sorry - " 

"Carter." Reaching up, he grasped the can in her hand. Somehow, his fingers had found hers. Warm, compared to the cool metal of the can, and steadier than she'd expected. He made no attempt to break the contact. "Stay." 

"But - " 

"Stay." He tugged gently, forcing her to shuffle towards him, until her thighs bumped against the arm of the sofa. His eyes, now perfectly clear, studied her intently. 

"I - " 

"Stay." 

She hadn't intended to linger. She'd meant to drop off the date-in-a-bag and then leave. She'd meant to give him an opportunity to find some companionship - to find some happiness. She'd wanted to give him - what - permission? - to have more. More than ridiculous, stilted moments within the chaos. More than the non-relationship that they'd been forming. More than what she, herself, could offer. She'd meant for this to be the moment she'd stepped away. 

Because even though she'd never truly acknowledged it to anyone other than a spunky stranger in the Food Court - not even really to herself - she did have man troubles. Only - they were specific to _this_ man. Trouble with feelings that she shouldn't have, trouble setting limits, trouble letting go. 

But still, those fingertips, touching hers. . . 

For a split second, she was back in the 'Gateroom, in the dark, the Colonel's face glowing with the organism's eerie blue trails. She'd taken his hand, held his fingers, felt the roughness of his palm against her own. She'd fought against the surge of panic and loss that threatened to overtake her, and told him that he was probably going to die. And he'd moved his thumb against her fingers - subtly, she'd barely been able to feel it. But it had been enough to tell her, without a doubt, that he trusted her. That he believed in her. 

And now, she could have let go of the can at any moment. She could have. But she didn't want to. Just as she hadn't wanted to let go of his hand in the 'Gateroom. And where she'd had the General and Daniel and myriad others watching her at the SGC, here it was just her, and a can of Diet Coke, and the warmth of those strong fingers over hers. 

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. 

"I really didn't mean to intrude." 

"But I want you to." 

"I'm not sure - " 

"Carter." He took the soda away from her, resting it on the sofa next to him. He'd looked away from her, staring down at the can resting on the cushion instead. "C'mon." 

With a little sigh, she rolled her eyes heavenward. Turning, she made her way back into the kitchen, yanking the fridge door open and grabbing a soda. By the time she'd returned to the living room, the Colonel had turned the TV on and inserted the disc. She paused, letting him settle back onto the sofa before sinking in next to him. 

"Which movie did you choose?"

Holy Hannah. He smiled - a one-cornered affair that sent a chill up her spine - before tugging the can out of her grasp. "Not the chick one." 

"Naturally." 

"Have some grub." He handed her a box into which he'd shoved a set of chopsticks. "You're the fungus girl." 

Accepting the box, she leaned back, shifting to tuck her feet underneath her. Beside her, he'd balanced his own container on his thigh as he fiddled with the universal remote. The couch was smaller than she'd remembered - really more of a love seat. She was close to him. Close enough to feel the warmth of his body, to hear him breathe, to feel every movement of his body next to hers. "Sir?"

"Yeah, Carter?" 

"I was just trying to make things right. I wasn't trying to invite myself over for anything like this." 

"I know." 

"I need to make sure that you know that." 

"I do." He looked over at her, tossing the remote onto the slight space between them and picking up his dinner. His movements were slower than normal, more deliberate due to his injury and medications. "But it doesn't mean that I don't appreciate the thought." 

"Well, it was the least I could do." Sam situated the chopsticks in her hand and dug into her mushroom chicken, carefully taking a bite. 

"Pretty much." The Colonel dipped an egg roll into his tiny container of sweet and sour sauce, but the look he shot her way was rather saucier. It was a sideways grin that never failed to sock her right in the gullet, his dark eyes playful, and a dimple making a deep divot in his cheek. "I mean, you kind of owed me."


End file.
